Can one continue to call themselves a blogger if they haven’t officially blogged in weeks? I’m gonna go ahead and say no. I’m downgrading myself to blogger-wannabe, or bloggabe, until further notice.

I’ve been busy. Really busy. Busier than other people. (Kidding.) I’ve worked (very little), I’ve cleaned out parts of my house which have been neglected for years (literally), I’ve researched, visited, and poured over countless schools for Garrett for next year. He’ll be in transitional kindergarten, and I’ll be cleaning pools, cutting hair, waiting tables, and selling hand-made jewelry to pay for it.

Oh, and I’ve been fighting off anxiety, fear and anticipation for my 40th birthday. It’s in three days. Last night I shared copious amounts of pulled pork, pastrami, french fries, pie, cookies, and prosecco with my friends to celebrate. Today I’m paying for it. Because I’m old. And when you’re old, you can’t shovel tons of fattening food and alcohol in your mouth without paying for it the next day. (Especially when, since the time change, your darling son refuses to sleep later than 5:46 AM at which time he asks to come into your bed, PROMISING to not talk and to go back to sleep, which never ever happens. So, really, you’re up at 5:45. Every frigging day.)

I’m now in preparation mode for Thanksgiving. Making lists, checking them twice, ordering organic turkey big enough for twice as many people than will actually be at my table. I love Thanksgiving so frigging much. I’m also compiling my stack of catalogs to officially start shopping for G-Man for Christmas. I’ve already bought all the clothes and pj’s, and now I’m on to toys, a bike, and a bunk bed. I better start cleaning those pools.

Oh yeah. I’ve also been prepping for work. New work. Work that I can’t tell you about yet, but that I hope will last for a while and be entertaining and helpful for many, many people. Work that officially begins right before Chrsitmas and might not pick up again until the summer, if at all. I’m excited for this work. But I am also filled with nerves and anxiety (which is apparently how I am most comfortable), because I’ve been a stay-at-home mom again for most of this year, while my husband has been the (nearly) sole provider for us. It has kept me busy, this mom-business. Too busy to blog for a while. Too busy to be as scared as I could be to be 40. Too busy to care about much else but taking care of my amazing boy, and have dinner waiting for my amazing husband when he walks in the door at 8:45 after a long commute home.

I like being G’s mom and Russ’ wife. A lot. But I guess there’s a part of me that looks forward to the challenge of being as good of a mom and a wife while helping to pay for Transitional Kindergarten. And kindergarten. And so on. The whole school thing is another blog post that I’m looking forward to writing. But right now I have to play Wii Sports with Garrett. And go back to being a bloggabe.

It comes with the territory of having a smart kid; a kid who isn’t satisfied with “yes” or “no” answers, a kid who likes details, who looks inside of things and turns them around in his head over and over until they make sense. You have to expect it from a kid who likes to know everyone is happy and no one is in a bad mood, or angry, or sad. A kid who totally understands when you take his chocolate dessert away because it’ll make him cough harder. (As long as you replace it with a frosted sugar cookie.)

We told G on Saturday that our cat, Sonny passed away, and for two hours he was untouched by the news. But as soon as he digested it, the questions came.

“Will we see him again?”

“Is he still sick?”

“Was he old?”

They were easy questions at first. The great thing about Garrett is you just have to be honest with him. We always are. Yes, the shot will hurt a little but then you’ll get a lollipop. No, you can’t bring your blanket to the restaurant because God knows what’s on the floor of those places, and if it touches the floor I’ll have to wash it 30 times. No, this isn’t mommy’s original nose.

But the questions got harder. And somewhere between honesty and fantasy lies spirituality. This is the first time I had to share any of my beliefs with my son, and the first time I wasn’t sure about how honest I was being… Because I don’t know the truth.

“Am I going to die?”

“Yes, we all are.”

“What happens when we die?”

“Well, I think we go to Heaven and we get to do a lot of fun things.”

“Do they have houses? And food? And drinks? And refrigerators?”

“Yes to all of those.”

Then he said this:

“I’m SO EXCITED to get to Heaven!!”

I put the brakes on.

“Whoa!! Slow down, sweetie. Don’t rush to get there. You should stay here as long as possible.”

“But Heaven sounds fun!”

“I’m sure it is, honey. But it’s fun here, too. I would miss you if you went there, so let’s all stay here for a while.”

“Okay.”

Then he got sad and said he didn’t want to die because he wouldn’t be able to play with his Transformers. (He only has one Transformer. And it’s on loan from his cousin. But apparently it’s the one possession that’s making him want to stay here.)

We talked about Grandpa Art and how he’s probably taking care of Sonny, then he asked if we could call them. I told him he could talk to them whenever he wanted but we wouldn’t be able to hear them talk back. I told him when people die we don’t get to see them again, and that it’s harder for us then it is for them.

He wanted to know what Heaven looks like and if we could look it up on the computer. I told him no one knows unless they’ve already gone there, but we could draw pictures in the morning of what we think it looks like.

He asked if Russ and I are going to die, and when. I told him we’d hopefully all live until we’re 100 years old. Then he said over and over how he didn’t want to ever die and I told him it was so long from now that we don’t have to worry about it. I distinctly remember those childhood fears. They’re still fears of mine, but they’re a lot less raw and scary.

It was a hard conversation to have. It tested all of my parenting skills. And I know we’ll be talking about it for a long time. It is in these moments, when we’re faced with these challenges, that we parents wonder how much we’re screwing our kids up. Because, we are. It may just be a little bit, barely detectable, but it’s most likely bigger than that. And if we didn’t screw them up this time, we’ll do it the next time, when they ask us about love or marriage or oral sex or drugs or alcohol or geometry.

But it is in the deepest part of me that I long to look my son in the eye and share with him my truths. I promise to not shy away from the tough questions, but to face them head-on and answer them. I want him to know that he is worth the painful conversations and the uncomfortable silences. I will do my best to not screw him up too badly. Or I’ll die trying.

About a month ago, Garrett and I went to the library together for the first time. It’s not that I’d been putting it off, it’s just that I wasn’t in a big rush to get there. After all, there used to be a thing called “A Book Store”, where you could walk in and pick any book off the shelf. And purchase it. Yes! For reals!! But, since I have to drive 40 minutes to get to the nearest “Book Store” now, I thought we’d try the library. That’s a lie. It was G’s idea. He said, “Let’s go to the library!” And we did.

We walked in and headed straight for the information desk, where a lovely 20-something girl offered to help us find whatever we needed. What we apparently needed were dinosaur books. “Picture-books, or information-books?”, she asked. I looked at Garrett. “Information”, he offered. So we went to that section.

Within minutes, G had a lap-full of dinosaur books that he literally could not wait to start reading. “Let’s bring them to a table!” We did. And we spent the next hour going through those books, him telling me about all the dinosaurs and asking me about the ones he didn’t know yet. Every ten minutes or so, he’d tell me how AWESOME he thought it was at the library and how HAPPY he was to see these books. His head nearly exploded when I told him we could borrow them for three weeks. He read them over and over when we got them home.

The library is a magical place. But I’m going to admit something that many of you will not find at all surprising. Used books freak me out. I like new, crisp books that have not been read by anyone yet. And here is why:

As G and I read and became filled with dinosaur knowledge, I couldn’t take my eyes from the stains and splotches on nearly every page. These were my thoughts as we read: Why are the stains always brown? Do people take their library books to the bathroom and use the pages to cleanse themselves? Do they eat chocolate pudding, using the books as place mats? Do they clean their wounds with the pages and let the blood dry slowly on the words written there? What’s that awful smell? Did the man next to me just poop himself? Oh. Nope. G just turned a page.

I also feel the need to wash my hands even MORE than I usually do, after touching library books. They’re gross. But Garrett has found a place that he loves, and it’s filled with stinky, poop-stained, disgusting books that are filled with fantastic information. We’ve gone a couple times now, and both times have truly been wonderful. He pulls books off the shelf with such excitement and we spend so much time reading them at the library, and then at home. I do love it there, and I love our time there.

I just wish I was really rich, so I could fill the library with brand new books, and enforce jail time for anyone who stains them, writes in them, rips the pages, or uses them as loofas. Reading is fundamental. But library books are funky. (And not in an R&B or Hip Hop kind of way.)

*The views expressed in this post are not supported by my son, the information girl, the librarian who helped us get our library cards, or the man sitting next to me who did not poop himself.

My brother’s guest house is Spanish-style, like the main house. It sits back behind the pool area next to beautiful, green grass. The inside of it looks like a cabin you would find in the mountains; blonde wood covering the walls, Indian rugs on the floor, a small bedroom with a single bed, a lovely bathroom and a small kitchen with a retro-looking, turquoise fridge.

There are pictures on the walls; one of my dad’s Junior High class. He’s in the upper left corner with a wry grin on his face. Next to that is the framed menu from the deli my grandfather owned in the late 50’s. There are photos of my brother and sister-in-law at past jobs, pictures of dogs who aren’t around anymore, framed mirrors, and many books. The bedroom holds a lamp with a lovely shade and fresh linens in a wicker chest.

This is the house where my cousin came to die.

In his early 20’s my cousin battled and beat Hodgkins Lymphoma, and changed his life. At the time he was a stoner, a surfer, and a punk. When he was well again, he became a vegetarian, a staunch supporter of vitamins, and a very hard worker. After years of building houses and work as a general contractor, he went to school to become a chiropractor because he wanted to help people who were in pain. He practiced in that field until last November, when he was diagnosed with stage 4 throat cancer. He had just turned 59.

My cousin is only 11 years younger than my mom, by virtue of her sister being 13 years older than she. My mom fell in love with him the second he was born, and always looked at him more as a younger brother, than a nephew.

He fought this cancer valiantly, doing all he was told to do and believing with all his heart that he’d be back to work by now. He charted his calories, making sure to take in at least 2000 a day, so as not to become weak. He walked, he checked his Vitamin K intake, he dealt with the nausea and the frustration of chemo.

Two weeks ago it became clear that his fight was over, and my brother and sister-in-law immediately offered their guest house, it’s bright skylight and cheery decor a welcome change from the hospital he has been in and out of, and the village apartment the hospital provided so he could be close to chemo. A welcome change also from the apartment he still rented over an hour away from where we all live. My brother and sister-in-law invited my cousin to their home to die close to his family in the San Fernando Valley where he grew up.

Today I was there a lot. I went back tonight and sat on the couch next to the hospital bed that hospice set up. A caretaker and hospice nurse were there, checking vitals and monitoring his breathing, which is slowing. I pulled a book from the shelf and started reading, “My Name is Asher Lev”. The first 20 pages were depressing as hell, which actually seemed appropriate.

Watching my cousin die is different from watching my dad die a year ago. I don’t know if I can describe all the ways it’s different right now, but maybe someday I will. I feel like a bit of a veteran now. It’s all less scary, but not any less surreal. My cousin is not letting go as easily as my father did, and I know he has his reasons for that. I can’t imagine what my mom feels, watching her nephew, her brother, leave. Their relationship is special. He even told me so on Tuesday.

I am amazed by the generosity of my brother and sister-in-law. It’s a big thing they’ve done. Their kids, who are 10 and 13, are finding it difficult and sad, but they knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was the right thing to do. My nephew moved his drums out of his space and my niece hung a big sign on the wall welcoming him there.

Death is an interesting thing. I’m starting to see it as just one of the many phases of our lives. It is inevitable. It will come. There is great beauty in it. And great sadness.

I listened to an Adele song on the way home tonight, because nothing beats a sad song when you’re blue. I know I’ll always remember this time, this sadness, and this beauty. I will carry it with me like I carry my father, but in a different place. And I promise I will be even more grateful, even more joyous, even more aware of all of the bounties of life.

I wrote this post Saturday night, three days ago. My cousin lost his battle at 1:30 this morning. Or maybe I should say he won the war. It was the first time in six days that there was no family around him sharing memories, crying, or laughing. I’m positive he waited until it was just him and the nurse. He hated being a bad host, as he told me many times on my visits with him over the last year.

Funny thing: Until he was diagnosed, I only saw my cousin about two or three times a year, on birthdays or holidays. He lived over an hour away and worked crazy hours, six days a week. Since he got sick, I saw him at least once a week, usually more. I think we learned a lot about each other over the last year.

He told me at least three times in the last month to be grateful and thank God every single time you wake up healthy.

I hope your journey is a beautiful one, Bill. I hope you’re surfing and that you have ten big dogs. I hope you get to see your dad and Grandma and my daddy. I promise I’ll remember to be grateful. Every day.

To my readers: There is no need to say you are sorry. I am more happy for my cousin that he is free of his pain, than I am sad. I know this will be hardest on my mom and on my cousin’s sister. For the rest of us, we will miss him dearly but we feel blessed for all the time we spent with him since he was diagnosed, and we are so glad he is out of pain. I mostly wrote this so you could use his advice and be grateful for your health, your family, and your time.

G and I went to Huntington Beach to stay two nights to be near Russ. He was working there all week and his hours have been crazy for the last two months, so anything we can do to see him… We do.

G and I spent most of the day on the beach Wednesday. I’m not entirely a “beach person”. There’s a lot of shit you have to carry. There’s a lot of sand that gets into the shit that you carry. There’s a lot of sunblock that needs to be applied, that the sand then sticks to. There’s a lot of people. Did I mention the sand?

HOWEVER, since I have become a mom I try to “go with the flow” a little bit more. I try to stretch my wings, change my mind, and enjoy the beach.

We both thought it would be a great idea to make a sand castle. I was actually excited, because I haven’t made sand castles since I was a little kid. I immediately got to work, taking all of our sand toys out of the bag and running to the ocean to fill our pail up with water. G was right behind me, cheering me on but not wanting to get too close to the waves. Running back up to where our gear was, I started pouring water on our chosen castle location. A couple more trips to the sea gave us a wet enough product to begin working with. I immediately made a small moat and a platform in the center of it. G and I started patting down the sand, getting ready to begin construction.

Then Garrett poured a whole lot of dry sand on the platform. I patiently tried to explain to him that you can not build with dry sand. He insisted I was wrong as he poured more dry sand onto the platform. “Garrett”, I lovingly said, “We need the sand to be wet so we can build with it.” I generously showed him how dry sand merely slipped through my fingers while wet sand stayed together. “See?”, I gently nudged, “The dry sand just falls away.”

My detailed explanation was met with more and more dry sand being recklessly thrown onto my would-be castle.

“I’m done!”, I defiantly exclaimed. “You can build the castle however you want to build it.” Then I laid back on our giant blanket and shielded my eyes from the sun. I daydreamed about falling asleep and waking up to Garrett and a group of helpful surfers having built a castle, the likes of which had never been seen. Actually, I was really just daydreaming about falling asleep. Period.

I took a few deep breaths and decided it was more important that G and I have a good time together than it was for us to “properly” build a castle. I sat up, checking to see if anyone was checking out my pathetically pale skin, and said, “Let’s build!”

“Yes! Let’s build a volcano!”

I quickly got to work, before he changed his mind. I made a volcano-type structure out of the WET sand I had previously made and G asked me to make a deep hole in the center. I did. And he filled it with dry sand. It looked awesome. We had come together, the two of us, and used our materials in a fashion that made us both content. I felt like a leader. I felt like a teacher. I felt like an accomodater (even if that isn’t a real word). And as I sat there, glowing in our achievements as a team… Garrett stomped the shit out of our volcano.

I then went back to spraying on sunblock, arranging towels, staring at tan people, and watching Garrett get as much sand as possible into his hair, bathing suit, and butt. At one point he agreed to hold my hand and let the water hit his feet. That ended with him screaming at me because it was too cold, and a couple of nearby dads laughing at me. By 3:20 we were both tired, starving and ready to pack it up. We met Russ for lunch, G drew an amazing surfer on the waves, and he and I headed back to the hotel room for baths and showers.

It was a good day. And that night, while G slept, I told him I love him. Then I subliminally whispered in his ear about the properties of sand, and how you can’t build a freaking thing with it if it’s dry.

This list is only partial, and most of it has needed to be done for years. We are a frugal pair, and the poor house suffers because of it.

But the most nagging, annoying, in-your-face thing that needs to be done is to RE-PAINT THE INSIDE OF THE HOUSE!

When Russ and I moved in, we painted all of the rooms ourselves. We will never do that again. It was adorable and romantic at the time. Two youngsters in old denim, ordering pizza and holding paint rollers. We were a sight to see. But years of wear (and possible shoddy work) have caused our painted walls to rebel against us. I’m about to show you photographic proof of our shame. Now let’s see if it helps me to get off my ass and call a damn painter.

This is the chip by the front door. It’s mostly due to our dog, Bogie jumping up and scratching whenever someone comes to the door:

This is the massive erosion of the paint on the window sill where Bogie stands with his nails scraping the paint off little by little:

This is the wall in the dining room/family room, where G’s wicker toy basket has left several scratches, and now this chip in the paint:

This is the window sill in the kitchen. Years of water and steam and bullshitting my way through dinner parties has caused this:

And this is the ingenious way I cover up the embarrassing paint problem:

As you can see, this is a problem. Obviously, it isn’t a problem that has taken up too much of my time trying to fix. But it is a problem, nonetheless. We could probably find the paint we need in the garage and patch up all the “issues”, but most likely I’ll want all new paint colors. We’ve been living with the same walls for seven and a half years, so it would be nice to spruce things up. That means I have to go pick paint colors. AND if we’re going to paint, shouldn’t we get the floors refinished at the same time? That way the painters wouldn’t have to worry as much about the floors, knowing they were about to get made over. And then, if the painters are coming anyway, shouldn’t we just have them do the outside as well?

And then, just like that, we’ve probably spent close to ten grand. I just got really sick to my stomach.

So, do we do the patch work and fix one problem at a time? Or do we live with the shame of our house falling apart until we can spend the money to get it all done at once?

What would you do? Or, should I say, what will you do? For me. To help. Got any wood-floor hookups? Any free paint? Wanna come re-do my walls? I’ll take you to Hollywood, where the celebrities are. But I won’t help you paint. I did that once. And it didn’t really work out.

Since Russ has gone back to working outside of the house, G-Man and I have been spending a TON of quality time together; even more than we did before. We’ve been having some fantastic adventures and a lot of good bonding time (which he will never remember). Over the past week he’s been dropping some awesome quotes and I wanted to share a few with you.

*Upon seeing a SCUBA diver in the water at the aquarium: “Mom, look! A SCREW DRIVER!”

*Talking about taking a shower: “We have to put the mat down so I don’t slip. My butt is hard so I could get hurt. Your butt is squishy so it won’t hurt as bad if you fall.”

*After finding my Jillian Michael’s workout DVD’s: “Mom, you have to exercise. Put this on now. I want you to exercise.” When I told him I had to change clothes: “Okay. Are you going to put on your exercise boobs?” He then proceeded to work out right next to me for ten minutes. He’s a great trainer.

*After a day of some fun, some errands, and a lot of silliness: “Mom, I love you in my whole heart.”

*Upon trying to make him laugh: “Only Dads and boys can be funny. Girls and Moms can’t.” I’ll have to show him “Bridesmaids”.

*Picking him up from school last week:

“When I get older, will I marry?”

“I think so. But you have to find someone you love very much.”

“I want to marry Penelope at my birthday party when I turn 4. And I want a radio to play “The Final Countdown”. And I want my teachers to be there.”

*And possibly the coolest of all: At school they were learning about different cultures all over the world. His classroom got Ireland and Greece. The teachers taught the kids the Greek alphabet, but weren’t sure if it was completely sinking in. It was. Garrett recited the whole thing for me and then for Russ. Russ was very proud, but said he’ll only be accepted into a fraternity when he recites it holding a burning match after ingesting three beers.

There you go. Just a few of the gems I’ve been privy to lately. Oh, kids! They say the DARNDEST things, don’t they? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

I’m exhausted.

Update!!!! I just got done swimming with G. When his cousin asked why I got out of the pool, G replied:

It’s a story for another time, but today I was at the hospital visiting my cousin for the second time this week. It’s a cancer hospital. A place where research is done, people are healed, and others… Are not.

As I left his room to let him sleep and headed toward the elevators, I saw a couple I had seen as I was coming in. They were Asian and in their late 40’s, or early 50’s. When I first saw them, he was on his cell phone in the third floor lobby, possibly getting updates, possibly giving them. She was across from him, facing him in a chair about ten arm-lengths away. She watched him intently. She was quiet.

Here I was, only an hour later walking through the same lobby. And she was with him again, her husband I think. And she was wailing as she walked toward the elevator. It’s a wail I have only heard within the last year or so, sometimes from my mom, sometimes from myself. It was the wail of someone who lost someone they could never fathom losing.

I didn’t want to get on the elevator with them, to interrupt this precious moment. See, grief is important. It’s private and beautiful and so very necessary. I didn’t want her to feel like she needed to cut it out, or pull it back or stop the pain. So I waited in the lobby, facing the window and I cried. I cried for her and her loss. I cried for my dad who was treated for nearly four years at this same hospital, and I cried for my cousin who is fighting.

I know I’ve been yapping a lot the last year about how I’m trying to live differently. I’m trying to prioritize and make every moment special. No one can do it all the time, but my percentage has certainly risen. And living in that moment today gave me even more resolve. This life is precious, people. And I don’t care if you get sick of me saying it. I’m going to say it a lot more.

Do things that matter to you. Take care of your people. Let your people take care of you. Don’t let your stuff define you. Reach out to new people. Hug someone so damn hard they lose their breath. Don’t waste time with shitty friends. Don’t be cheap. Don’t stress about the shit you can’t do anything about. Apologize. Accept apologies. Have some serious fucking fun every single day. Teach someone something you’re good at. Don’t be afraid to learn new things. Smile at a stranger. Listen when someone is talking to you. Remember when your spouse was the person you were dating. Tickle your kid. Laugh your ass off. I’m doing all of that stuff a whole lot more. And it’s just the beginning…

As you may have heard by now, there was a big-ass blogging convention in San Diego last weekend. Blogher ’11 was a bevy of beautiful, talented, smart, funny women (and some men) who blog, want to blog, used to blog, or want bloggers to talk about them or their products on a blog. In it’s seventh year, the Blogher convention still feels like it’s new. Even though I’m a little late to the game, I felt like I was getting in on the ground floor.

I had an incredible time. I met incredible people. I got incredible free shit.

And now I’m paying for it.

I am, what some people might call, bad at time-management. I suck at it, frankly. And when I take any time off of my regularly scheduled programming, all hell breaks loose. You must understand, Blogher didn’t just take up four days in beautiful, sunny San Diego. NO! It took several days (maybe even weeks) of planning before I left L.A. (Including the 90-minute session of trying on clothes before packing, so that I was packing outfits instead of just random tank tops and jeans like I usually do.) I also had to get all the laundry done, grocery shop, and make meals so the fridge wasn’t empty in my absence. I had to arrange baby-sitters and grandma-visits. I had to fill up the gas tank, get a car wash, and of course… Spray tan.

So, coming home after a week of prep and four days away has left me behind, to say the least. I have bills to pay, food to buy, stuff to clean, calls to make, emails to return, swag to organize, business cards to go through, etc. etc. etc. And so far, due to some work and personal circumstances, I have had no time. I have so far only accomplished laundry and ordering in. Not a meal has been cooked by me since last Wednesday, and I’m pretty sure one will not be cooked by me tonight. The stack of papers I need to go through on my desk has reached hilariously large proportions, I need to transfer my jury duty service to the court by my house, and I still haven’t taken my on-line traffic school course.

Do you see? I suck at managing time. And I’ll be blaming Blogher ’11 for everything I don’t get done from now until Blogher ’12.

But I am realizing something cool as I type these words. Since I’ve been home from Blogher, I’ve taken three walks with my son and my dog, Garrett and I have spent at least an hour chalk-drawing on the sidewalk, I’ve played pirates, I’ve mimed ice-skating and falling over and over again, I’ve played “I Spy” while waiting for pizza, I’ve fixed snacks and put band aids on the smallest boo-boos you’ve ever seen, I’ve shared a cupcake and giggled as we licked the abundant blue icing, I’ve had at least two tickle fights, read four books, and given numerous hugs, kisses, and a few reprimands and tear-wipes. SO, I am clearly good at time-management when it comes to a little blond guy who lives with me. But not when it comes to anything else.